I let the tailgate slam down on the old GMC pickup so I can have a seat. Then there's an urge. It usually happens as I pull on my ski boots at the side of a smooth stretch of pavement somewhere. Maybe it's the cooler temperature that triggers it, but I'm compelled to stick the schnoz in the air and take a big old whiff. You can smell it. There is something in the air. Winter's coming.

I reach into the bed of the truck and grab the old rollerskis and get a face-full of scents. Old gasoline, rubber from the spare tire, and the definitely-NOT-new-car smell of a 1986 truck bed. I get a faint breath of the old Bike Nashbar lithium grease I put in the wheel bearings as I clip into the bindings. I take a swig of cold, plastic-flavored water. Gray, bottle-cage aluminum covers the outside; proof of summer bike rides long past.

Then, it's time to clip on the ridiculously obsolete bike helmet. As I do that, the rollerski gloves emit a pungent cloud. They reek of salt and leather. I didn't have much need for the terry cloth backing in the heat, but the cold causes my nose to drip clear like a faucet. Each wipe of the beak with these worn mitts reminds me of the smells of summer mileage.

The best olfactory treat for me is once you start to roll. I spent a lot of time out west where you seemed to get a lot of sickly, sweet sagebrush scent when you were out pretending to ski on a lonely, low-traffic highway. Your throat would get dry and coppery. What a blessing to move to Minnesota. There is absolutely nothing as refreshing as the smell of the boreal forest in the fall.

An overcast gray sky. Maybe some drizzle. Firs, spruce, birch. Green, yellow, red, white, and orange. There is an overwhelmingly cool, brisk, humid musk that fills your senses as you roll down the road. Tons of falling leaves and needles turning into humus. Biomass. It reminds me of training for high school ski season in New Hampshire. Or rollerskiing in Alaska in the strange, low-angle light of mid-day in late summer. The smell of this fragrant, clean rot fills my lungs and anchors me in the here and now, on the verge of winter, even while I remember the past.

Later on, I'll bet people that I can sniff the cold winter air and guess the temperature within two degrees. It's kind of a parlor trick for the trails. The sterile feeling in my nostrils will mean that I'm out enjoying the best sport in the world. But that January, nosehair-freezing snort will be nowhere near as sensuous as this October one. My wheels roll down the road, pole tips ticking away the miles. Right now, my lungs are filled with the aroma of anticipation. I want to breathe out, "I can't wait."

Sonnet for a Fall Morning

Chilled air and green leaves converge into one.
While thin coats of frost dance on farmers' fields,
Fading darkness turns to a brilliant sun.
Upon the winding pavement we glide, wheeled

Hours pass, hearts thump, and sweat slowly forms,
With snow still months away. Minds and hearts float.
Oops! Ephemeral slips leave beloved pants torn.
Back to campus, empty bottles we tote.

Sleepy eyes greet us while lone red leaves sing,
'Greetings classmates, how was Friday morning?'

It's a cold, rainy fall day, but I'm working out.

Blue sky, cold temperatures, an immaculate track. The ski poles creak in their peculiar way as the skiers compete in a classic race. The world's best skiers are beautiful to watch. I ski along with them and mimic their motion to make my workout more enoyable. Skaari wins, coming from behind incredibly. Another close finish. I think about Stephi Belmondo's 15k and Beckie Scott in the pursuit. But I won't see them today, so I ski on.

Now the men. Skating. That damned Muhlegg! I hate to watch him now, so I switch events.

Women's biathlon. I want Maggie Forsberg to win gold, and she is in an exciting race. I pick up my pace as the biathletes push over the hills, guns swaying with each skating stroke. They come into the range for the last time, Maggie has a chance, but she misses. Twice! Unbelievable! Her spirit broken, she skis slowly in the final leg. I feel sorry for her and push harder.

The men again. Great weather, 4X10K relay. I get fired up as I watch John Bauer scream by the pack on the uphills. Hardworking midwest boy makes his mark. I try to imitate him as I watch his legs explode with each kick. Now it's Chris Freeman for the U.S. as Norway builds their lead. I relax my pace because I have much longer to ski today. Wadsworth goes out with the Italian, Cottrer, who everyone knows is fast. If only Justin could lock on. I ski along as Cottrer pulls away from Wadsworth, then catches and passes Norway. How many of these skiers are doped? Norway can't be doping, can they? Was that thunder? It's still raining, but seems too cold for a thunderstorm. Alsgaard and Zorzi go out, my pace quickens. Even though they're skating and I'm striding, I try to match cadence, snapping my legs quickly as they climb hills, relaxing as they cruise the flats.

Zorzi makes his move, I try to be quick like him. He slows. Alsgaard almost stops to make him pass, but he won't. Weenie! That was definately thunder. Alsgaard leads into the stadium. I once worried that Italian sprinter would win after drafting so long, but not now. Alsgaard has taken too much out of Zorzi's legs, and though the quick Italian takes the inside lane in the final turn, Alsgaard dusts him off in the home stretch. Norway, Gold. Italy, Silver. Germany, Bronze. U.S.A.? Carl Swensen is battling with Austria's Christian Hoffmann for fourth, but can't hold on. More doping? The U.S. finishes in fifth! Awesome! Is it the begining of greater things to come, or is this the pinnicle? My concentration has flagged with the relay finish. I'm hardly moving, so I decide to finish the last five minutes on my own. Where's the remote?

With good Olympics tapes, even a Nordic Trak can be fun when the fall weather gets crappy.

Nancy and I decided to come up with a new zany training regimen just to break out of the monotony of our oldie standby exercises. Her idea, accepted with a somewhat jaundiced attitude, was to take our oldest cross-country ski equipment, that never used stuff sitting in the basement that you moved about once a year, up to one of our favorite hiking areas�the South Kettle Moraine State Forest. And so we did, laughing that idiotic laugh of the severely demented as we lifted the equipment from inside the car to our shoulders with ski boots on our feet. On the trails, we agreed to hike and then step into our skis at the bottoms of some of the steepest hills. We would then practice bounding up the hills or the herringbone or side stepping or even striding if traction was possible.

Our main concern was to avoid the disbelieving glances and comments of any hikers we might encounter on the trails. Hikers� comments hit us right between the eyes. �There ain�t any snow �, as if we did not know this already. �Aren�t you two a little early?� another comment we learned to shrug off. �Funny hiking boots you got�, whizzed overhead and past us. Later, we came up with our own comments: �Well, we had snow when we started out.� Finally, we explained that we were preparing for the upcoming ski season and disbelievers seemed to accept our sanity.

Yes, we were being goofy but we thoroughly enjoyed being weird for a day. Since our drive back home would take about two hours, we realized that we would probably never see those people we met on the trails. Of course, if you tire of the comments and glances of trail hikers at Muir, just cross the road to Nordic. Here you can accept comments from either hikers or bikers. A fine day was had by all. Yes, we will do it again .